There is a growing shadow behind me. It is called district music festival. It wants my soul to practice. I am terribly afraid. Instead of practicing I am drawing, or watching the TV, or waiting for the mail man, or digging to Japan. But everytime I come in the door, I see the cello in the shadows of my room. And it calls to me. Its says to me: "You are not ready." "You shall fail music festival." "You shall bring dishonnor to the family." And each time I turn to hide from its wooden demands I cross paths with the piano who says, "Come play or die," "You must memorize these songs," "Music Festival will destroy you if you do not practice." But